


Sandy Booked the Honeymoon Suite

by rideswraptors



Series: Gallavich Shorts [6]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Honeymoon, M/M, post wedding, shameless-esque triggers and warnings, the beginning not the end or the middle or whenever that nazi bitch showed up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 11:15:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22495204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rideswraptors/pseuds/rideswraptors
Summary: “Gettin’ soft, Milkovich.”He barked out a laugh and kissed Ian open and dirty instead of making the obvious joke.“Always been soft for you, firecrotch.”
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Gallavich Shorts [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1611559
Comments: 11
Kudos: 295





	Sandy Booked the Honeymoon Suite

**Author's Note:**

> Sandy booked that room with that awful bed and it's a hill I'm willing to die on.

Mickey. Was. Trashed.

No two ways about it. As Ian sidled over to his  _ husband _ , Mickey was checking him out. Giving him that look he usually saved for privacy because it usually meant they were getting naked. His eyes were a little glassy, as they swept down and back up the length of his body, and his stance was a little loose. He looked relaxed. Comfortable. Free.

"Heeey hubby," he laughed. "You okay?" He was smiling, but there was an undercurrent of concern in his voice. Ian nodded. 

"Just wanna dance with my husband."

Mickey's smile was impossibly sweeter, and he couldn't fucking believe that they had gotten to this place: Mickey, his husband, wrapping his arms around him so they could dance to Ed fucking Sheeran in front of (almost) everybody they knew. But he wasn't surprised at all when Mickey nuzzled into his shoulder like a tired puppy. He got weirdly affectionate when he was drunk.

Ian just draped himself around his shoulders and dropped his nose into Mickey's neck, inhaling deep. Like always, Mickey was holding him up, keeping him steady.

"Thank you," he whispered against his skin. Mickey nudged against him as they swayed together.

"For what?"

"This. Today. Planning our wedding. Saying yes. Taking me back. Turning yourself in to be with me. Loving me."

He felt Mickey's exhalation, hot and hard against his own neck. 

"I've loved you since we were kids, Ian," he whispered, even and matter of fact. "It's not a choice when it's you."

Ian's hand dropped to clasp the other one, locking him in.

Mickey kept talking. He told him about all the times he'd thought it and what he'd done in response. He told him about all the times he knew it for sure after he came out. He told him how hard he'd tried to forget in Mexico until his face literally showed up on his doorstep. Some were funny, some definitely were not. He just talked and talked and talked. Ian would never be able to figure out how Mickey knew he needed to hear his voice, feel him breathing. He didn't pull away or try to make him feel better or try to fix anything. He was just there. Like he'd always been.

Somehow that made it all okay.

Ian wasn’t sure when the first tear slipped, but by the end of the song, Mickey noticed. Ian grumbled a little when he pulled back, but allowed himself to be examined. Mickey brought his hands up to Ian’s face, thumbs wiping at stray tears. Everyone had said it; take your meds, stressful day. And it was definitely stressful, but he wasn’t crying from stress. Or even because he missed his mom. Those two things were constants in his life; old aches he’d gotten used to. He was just so  _ relieved _ . It was done, Mickey was his for good and everybody knew it. Now he just had to keep him out of jail for patricide. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Mickey said softly, wrapping his arms around Ian’s neck, hanging on a little. Ian frowned.

“We haven’t even cut the cake, or--”

“Fuck it man, we hit the highlights.” 

Ian wanted to shout, yes let’s fucking do that. Let’s run off. Let’s leave and hide for a bit. Mickey would have more than happily followed along. But. They’d hired a videographer for a reason. They’d put themselves through the wringer for a  _ reason _ . Well, two reasons. One, to get married and have their one perfect day. Two, to stick it to Terry Milkovich in a big gay kinda way. Ian leaned down to kiss his  _ husband _ , pulling him back in by the hips. His appreciative hum was so satisfying Ian thought he’d melt right there. Drop to his knees for him. 

“We’ve got a very important video to finish shooting first.” Mickey blushed and slid his eyes away from him. Ian thought it was probably the cutest thing ever. But he wanted that video so bad. He wanted the pictures. He wanted to remember that Terry Milkovich burnt down their venue and they  _ still _ had an incredible wedding. He wanted to keep the video on his phone and go sit by his mom’s headstone and play it for her. To show Fiona and Mandy when they were able to visit.

“Okay,” Mickey said, half-heartedly. 

“And it has to be so  _ gay _ that it makes your dad’s eyes bleed.” 

“All right, all right, I get it.” 

“We have the cake to cut, speeches, we have a bride now so we really ought to toss a bouquet or something.”

“Anything else?” Mickey shot back, embarrassment gone now. 

Ian lifted his brows thoughtfully. “Could give you a lap dance instead of the garter thing.” 

Mickey seemed to consider that for a moment. “That’s really fucking gay.” Ian just shrugged, and Mickey slid a hand down to tug at his bowtie. “But you don’t have that dumbass tie-necklace thing anymore.”

“Got the gold shorts, though.”

“You wearin’ ‘em?” 

Ian laughed and hugged Mickey tight to him swaying, even though the pace of the music had picked up considerably and everyone around them was dancing like a drunken idiot. Mickey kissed his jaw and squeezed his arms tighter. Ian was pretty sure he saw flashes out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t care. He wanted them to capture this moment, right here. 

So they did all the things they were supposed to and everybody said all the right things. They smashed cake in each other's faces and licked it off, making people laugh and fake gag. They stood with Debbie, holding a bunch of flowers and threw it backwards into the crowd of single bitches on the dance floor. Kevin caught it, so Ian and V made the four of them dance together in a group. Kevin cried and Mickey scowled, but it was cute. 

They took a hundred photos. So many Ian thought his facial muscles would seize up and never move again. They danced to  _ Celebration _ and flipped off the camera before making out on the dance floor. Next week, they'd watch the edited video to see that Liam and Franny had jumped in front of the camera so he could teach her the chicken dance while they were kissing. 

Mickey danced with Sandy, and Ian danced with Debbie, and everyone laughed when Frank tried to dance with the both of them. Lip gave a speech about how hard it was to find love, how much they all had seriously doubted Ian's sanity when he picked Mickey, and how obvious it was to anyone who saw them together that they were a set. Package deal. He said they made each other better, and that everyone was very thankful that they now officially had a designated person to stop them from committing homicides. Or to bail them out after. People laughed, but Ian brushed a finger over Mickey's black eye and Mickey lifted Ian's arm to kiss it. He flinched, but only Sandy saw it, so whatever.

It was all great and amazing and Ian found himself tearing up every other second. But when the Gay Jesus groupies and Carl started talking about setting the fag fixer on fire, and Sandy was threatening the life of any Milkovich who tried to take Mickey's presents, they figured it was probably time to call it.

They finally got to drive off into the sunset together. In a sweetass car Frank probably stole, but still. Mickey was smiling like a kid in a candy store, spread out and relaxed. No running, no hiding, just driving the love of his life to their honeymoon suite. 

Mickey was grabbing at him all the way down the hall, trying to snatch the key, which only gave Ian the opportunity to make fun of his height. Mickey stretched and jumped a little to get it when Ian held the card way up, so Ian crowded him against the wall and kissed him until he was tugging at his clothes, hips pushing against his. 

"You gonna behave now?" Ian panted out between kisses and breathless giggling. 

"Fuck no," Mickey shot back, slinging an arm around his neck and catching his open mouth for a thorough, drugging kiss. He did that thing with his tongue that always got Ian hard and pushy. He would have tackled him to the ground, but their room was like five feet away.

"Shit, Mick, c'mon." He tugged him off the wall and went to swipe the key card. Mickey was crowding him into the room before he could even get the lights on. When he did, he busted out laughing.

"Goddamn it Sandy," Mickey growled from behind him. He was already tossing his jacket and heading straight for the bottle of champagne and note on the side table. "That dumb bitch," he muttered fondly. He held up the note. "Sends her love. Says to fuck  _ in style _ ." 

Ian bent at the waist to see if there was a better angle. There wasn't.

"It kinda looks like an ass."

He turned when he heard the bottle pop, saw Mickey pouring them glasses. 

"She's a fucking weirdo," Mickey said passing Ian one of the flutes. They both stared at the heart-shaped bed, shaking their heads and torn between amusement and exasperation. Mickey tossed a hand at it. "This is like some Mandy-level bullshit. How am I supposed to fuck you on a fucking heart?"

"Awww," Ian faux-whined, sliding his arms around Mickey's shoulders, "you don't wanna make love on the love bed?"

"Shut the fuck up," Mickey laughed, no heat to his words. Still staring up at Ian, he pointed to the bed. "This is ridiculous and you know it."

Ian dipped to nuzzle and lick and his husband's neck, inhaling deeply with each pass.

"You gonna sniff me or get on me, Gallagher?"

Ian hummed, not feeling in any particular hurry.

"Sniff first. You smell good." 

"I smell like beer and cabbage," he argued weakly.

"Mhmm, sexy."

Mickey shoved at him. "I hate you." But Ian had an arm braced around his back. He chugged his champagne and set their flutes aside.

"N'more of this," Ian said, pressing light kisses to his lips. "Want you to feel it."

Mickey tilted his head back smirking, “Don’t sell yourself short there, Gallagher. Kept comin’ back for a reason.” 

“The sparkling conversation? My amazing sense of humor? The death threats?” But Mickey pinched at his sides so that he crumpled at the waist, trying to defend himself, laughing and swatting hands away from him.

Despite how eager they both were, their move to the bed was relatively slow. They took jackets and shirts off, spending more time kissing and pawing at each other than effectively getting where they wanted. Mickey prevented Ian from tossing him on the bed and swung around so that Ian had to sit. Shirtless, he toed off his shoes and socks and knelt in front of his husband to help with the boot. He only had to wear it when he was walking for now. Couple more weeks of that and he’d be done with it. Mickey was such a nag about him keeping it on and taking it off in bed. 

“Sure you wanna do that?” Ian asked, threading fingers through his dark hair. Mickey shrugged and tossed it aside.

“Said I want you on me. Meant it.” He shucked off his belt and tossed it, then dropped his pants. He was wearing snug, black boxers briefs, bought specifically for the wedding. And Ian was really going to have to insist on future purchases. Way too good for just one night. Ian jerked him forward and planted kisses on his chest and belly, locked teeth onto his nipple momentarily. It didn’t last long, though, because Mickey shoved him back and climbed on top of him. Ian sighed into it. He probably liked nothing better than Mickey stretched out on top of him. His thighs bracketed Ian’s hips, and he kissed him open and dirty as he popped buttons and undid zippers. Mickey was such a great multitasker. 

“Stop thinkin’ so much,” Mickey grumbled before sweeping his tongue through Ian’s mouth, coaxing him out of his own headspace. Ian crunched forward, holding Mickey in his lap, switching between kissing and removing clothes. He slid his fingers below the waistband of Mickey’s underwear, stretching them over the curves of his ass and squeezing enough to make Mickey jerk his hips. They groaned into the contact and ripped their mouths away so they could remove the last barriers between them. 

It was heated and quick because despite their wanting it to last longer, they were both incredibly tired and they weren’t fifteen anymore. They didn’t even bother cleaning up or moving or doing any of the things they probably should have because they were too busy, tangled up in each other. A heaping mess of limbs and sheets and not enough energy to move, even if they wanted to. 

Mickey curled into him, nuzzling and rubbing to get comfortable. Ian stretched his arms around him and tried to keep his leg propped and out of the way. This only meant Mickey could slot a leg between his and cuddle closer. Ian pressed his face into his hair and kept his fingers splayed wide to make sure he stayed put. 

“Think he’ll leave us alone now?” he wondered after a little while of quiet. Terry had ruined a lot of their time together. Fuck, Ian was worried he’d ruin  _ this one _ somehow. He was like their personal piece of shit bogeyman. Jamie swore he didn’t mind the busted lip though, and Mickey didn’t blame him for blabbing about the venue change. According to Mickey, “Motherfucker woulda put him in the hospital.” And besides, Carl had the Gay Jesus Groupies on top of that shit. 

“No,” Mickey answered sullenly, pressing a kiss to Ian’s chest. “Now it’s gonna be a fuckin’ ego thing.” 

“He’s not gonna touch you again,” Ian ground out, his hold on Mickey tightening more than strictly necessary. Mickey tilted his head and patted Ian’s cheek. 

“Ey, Superman,” he teased soothingly. “Don’t worry about it. I can handle my dad.”

“I’m not some dumbass kid anymore, Mick,” Ian told him firmly. “I’m not gonna just let him hurt you.”

Mickey clenched a hand on his jaw. “Hey. Look at--Ian, look at me,” he moved back on top of him, hands beside Ian’s ears. “He’s old and he’s stupid. He knows he can’t come at me direct because he can’t take me. We just gotta bide our time until somebody whacks the guy or he has a heart attack.” 

“You weren’t gonna bide your time this morning,” Ian argued. Mickey bobbled his head and sighed. 

“I was...upset.” Ian snorted. “Thankfully some giant motherfucker knocked some sense into me.” He got that look in his eye again and Ian tugged him down to kiss him. 

“You deserve nice things, Mickey. Good days,” he emphasized, holding his face. 

“Today was a good day. Surprised Lip pulled it off. Or that he helped at all, really.” 

Ian grinned. “He likes you. Just...don’t tell him I told you that.” 

“He ain’t so bad either. House’ll be weird without him.”

“I’m sure he’ll be hanging around. Begging for childcare.” 

Mickey pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “Always were good with the little ones.” Ian ripped his eyes away, trying to hide his response but Mickey pulled him back. “Hey, don’t do that. You did more for that kid than I ever did. Just ask Svet, she tells me all the time.” 

“I think she misses you a little,” Ian answered slyly. 

“You pronounced  _ wishes me dead _ wrong.” 

“Oh c’mon, you guys were friends at the end of it. Even I miss her ranting sometimes.”

“Yeah whatever,” he grumbled, snuggling back into Ian’s chest. Probably so Ian couldn’t see his face. That time of their life was so fucked that there was no good way to handle it, so Ian let him be. He scratched his fingers on Mickey’s scalp, back and forth until he was sure his breathing had evened out some. It was always like this when they shared a sleeping space (because it hadn’t always been a bed, that’s for damn sure). Mickey would just melt into him, relax his body into Ian’s and keep ahold of him somehow. An arm thrown over his waist, a hand on his arm or wrist, a leg tossed over his hip. Didn’t matter, Mickey would trap him there. And Ian was more than willing to oblige him, more than willing to hold him and make him feel safe in their bed. 

“Can’t believe we’re married,” Ian whispered quietly. Mickey lightly scraped the skin on his chest and hummed. 

“Mmmhm, finally locked yer ass down,” he said around a yawn, nuzzling against his sternum. “Now yer stuck w’me. Jus’ you, me, ‘n the POs.” 

“There was a time when you couldn’t even say you  _ liked _ me.”

“Uh huh, and you had to propose twice. We keepin’ score now?”

“Nope.” 

Mickey grunted in response. Ian pulled a sheet up over them, making sure it was secure over Mickey so he didn’t get cold. Mickey was always cold. He said Ian was the best furnace he had. 

“Meant what I said earlier,” he mumbled after a while. 

“Hmm?” 

Mickey rolled his chin to Ian’s chest, blinking his eyes open at him. Ian dropped his head to his shoulder to see him better. 

“When I said I knew when we were kids. That I loved you.” Ian brushed a thumb over his cheek. “Knew it the first time I went to see you.” He dropped his head again with a sigh. “Didn’t  _ wanna  _ know it, but I knew.” 

“Me too. Wasn’t sure about you though.” 

“Bitch  _ please _ I didn’t work at that shitty store for nothin’.” 

“Yeah, you got paid.”

“I got to see  _ you _ . Alone. Every fucking day. For no reason. And I didn’t have to make up shit about it to you or anybody else. Fuck, I wanted to strangle that bitch you were seeing.” 

“Kash?”

“Him too.” 

Ian snorted. “You have assaulted a shocking number of my boyfriends.” 

“If you wanted me to feel better, you shoulda said  _ all _ .” 

“Nah,” Ian deadpanned.

“Oh fuck you.”

“Please,  _ please _ do.” 

Mickey stayed quiet though, fingertips tracing patterns on his skin, eyes following those pathways. Ian just watched him. He felt like he’d spent most of his time watching Mickey, looking for clues, waiting for even the barest hint of a sign that he wanted him around. It changed after his diagnosis. He watched Mickey still, but he was waiting for a sign that he  _ didn’t  _ want him around. Waiting for the shoe to drop. For everything to be over. Either way, it had been exhausting. Now, he was looking at his  _ husband _ . Just to look. Because he could. 

“Used to think about this, you know,” Mickey mumbled, briefly flicking his eyes up before turning his attention back to Ian’s chest. 

“About what?” 

“This. Us. Me ‘n you, laying around. Shacked up.” He bit his lip and Ian almost didn’t hear him. “Married.” 

“At the beginning?” Ian prompted, brow furrowed and trying to remember if he’d ever seen any indication Mickey had wanted more than just quick hookups. It was all pretty muddled, and Mickey’s words had always been so at odds with his actions. Dumbfuck 15-year-old Ian had put more stock in the words back then.

“Only let myself think about it when I was locked up. You know? What it would be like if I got out and everything was just...different.” 

“Coulda told me,” Ian whispered.

“And what?” Mickey said, turning his head, brows lifted incredulously. “Get yer hopes up? Make you think we had a future? Fuck,” he nuzzled back into Ian’s sternum, “didn’t think I’d live this long anyway. Figured you’d run off the first chance you got. Find some rich dude and forget about me.” 

Ian slid a hand up into his hair, nails lightly scraping his scalp. He felt the need to cover up every inch of Mickey Milkovich, keep him there, safe and protected. He knew he couldn’t, knew that they would have to leave the room eventually. Deal with POs, annoying siblings, shitty snap judgments. Fucking Terry. 

“I guess I wanted that for a bit. Or I thought I did.” 

“What stopped you?” 

Ian snorted. “You. Literally. Every time.” Mickey huffed a laugh through his nose and bit the meat of his pec. Ian tugged a lock of his hair. “The idea always changed. Wasn’t just me running off with some faceless guy. It was me running off with you.” 

“We did run off,” Mickey pointed out. Ian hummed. “You left.”

“Okay well in my  _ fantasy _ we weren’t on the run from the cops because you just escaped from jail.” 

“Fair point.” 

“We had jobs and a house and you were buddies with the neighbors.” He sniffed. “We took Liam with us. Made sure he was all right.”

“You worried about that?”

“Pretty much all the time. There’s just so much shit going on that I can’t keep track of him.” 

“Okay, so we’ll try a little harder.”

Ian gasped, feeling tears sting his eyes. “Thanks.” 

“We can find a place. I ain’t dealing with some fuckin’ landlord, but we can get out of the neighborhood at least. Stash some cash away and look around. Maybe after our parole’s up?” 

“Yeah,” Ian said, smiling, “sounds good.” 

Mickey propped himself up, moving more fully on top of him, and Ian’s eyes went to his like magnets snapping into place. His hands drifted down his neck, to his collarbone and chest. He pressed his hips down and Ian groaned at the contact, fully aware that Mickey was ready for another round. He snaked a hand between them, cupping and smirking when Mickey hung his head, eyes fluttering shut.

“Gettin’ soft, Milkovich.” 

He barked out a laugh and kissed Ian open and dirty instead of making the obvious joke. 

“Always been soft for you, firecrotch.” 

Ian laughed and braced an arm around his back so he could flip them, and Ian let himself get lost in the newest version of his fantasy. One that Mickey contributed to. One Mickey believed in too. 


End file.
